


Can I Phone A Friend?

by damnfancyscotch



Series: Whimsy & Confusion [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Pack, BAMF Stiles, Canon Divergence, College Student Jackson, College Student Stiles, M/M, Magical stiles, McCall Pack, Original Characters - Freeform, text conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-10-18 11:57:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnfancyscotch/pseuds/damnfancyscotch
Summary: The worst part is that, this time, Jackson actually didn’t do a damn thing to cause trouble.At twenty one, he’s enough of an adult to admit that he’s been the source of the majority of his problems over the years.It’s called personal growth and he’s pretty damn proud of himself for getting where he is now.But, seriously, this time, hereallydidn’t do anything.





	1. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... am a serious Stackson shipper. 
> 
> Don't get me wrong, Sterek is my bread and butter, but Stackson... dude, it just gets me. I have, like, seven Stackson stories in my WIP folder. If I ever get my shit together enough to start writing new stories, I might have to post some of them. Idk.
> 
> For now, here you are! Also, FYI, the text conversations in this fic are laid out a little different than my usual style bc there is simply SO MANY TEXT MESSAGES, so, heads up.
> 
> Enjoy!

The worst part is that, this time, Jackson actually didn’t do a damn thing to cause trouble.

At twenty one, he’s enough of an adult to admit that he’s been the source of the majority of his problems over the years.

It’s called personal growth and he’s pretty damn proud of himself for getting where he is now.

But, seriously, this time, he _really_ didn’t do anything.

And yet, here he is, stumbling into his apartment and leaning against the door to shut it. His legs buckle and down he goes, slumping to the floor in the entryway.

It’s getting harder to breathe. He’s lightheaded when he fumbles his phone from his pocket.

He pulls up his most recent text message, he can’t remember who it was he texted, but he hopes it’s Audrey or Seb, hell even his mom. Someone that can actually help him, even if he can’t explain what’s happening to him.

He presses on his keyboard where he thinks the right keys are but everything gets hazy and he hears the phone clatter onto the floor before everything goes black.

Jackson wakes up with his cheek pressed to the cold tile. He groans, rolling onto his back and uncurling from the fetal position he ended up in. Without looking, he pats around on the floor and finds his phone.

When he peers at it, he’s thankful that he managed to survive because the screen is completely shattered. He can’t read a thing and barely avoids cutting his thumb on a chip of glass. He sighs, exasperated with himself.

Even if he’d texted the right person, he’d been tripping balls so hard, it wouldn’t have mattered. He jumps, sucking back a growl, as his phone vibrates and he hears it turn off.

He knows he should get up off the floor, but he takes a moment to enjoy the fact that he’s still alive, even though he can smell the vomit and fear sweat on his clothes. He doesn’t remember throwing up, but a glance down at his chest proves that it’s a good thing he did.

“Fucking holly,” he snarls weakly, shaking the two semi-intact berries off his shirt and wondering who the hell has it out for him. “Not going back to that place.” It’s vaguely sad – he really likes the deli around the corner from his flat.

After he’s showered and gotten a new screen for his phone – the tech says it still works fine – he treats himself to coffee. Figuring that Starbucks is safe enough since it’s a corporate company, he slurps the drink and taps at his phone case, wondering who the hell he texted last.

Before his phone fully boots up from the system restart, a thrill goes up his spine and he jerks his head up.

Jackson scans the crowd, eyebrows drawing together as a man with white blonde hair catches his gaze. The guy tilts his head in a particularly reptilian way.

It chills him to the core, still, to see movements like that. He glances around, trying to figure out what’s going on. Before he can figure it out, the man blinks – _two sets of eyelids, fucking Christ_ – and starts stalking toward him.

Jackson breaks out of his daze and darts away, turning the corner before his coffee cup hits the ground. He bursts into a sprint, hurling himself past people and street vendors. He could give a shit if anyone sees him and wonders how he’s able to move so quickly.

The hair at the back of his neck prickles and he smells a snap of electricity. He has the borderline insane thought of a snake-lizard-thing that can wield lightning and has to choke back a hysterical laugh. He hooks his hand around a street sign, panting a little as he slings himself into an alley.

Pressed against the brick halfway down, the stench from the dumpsters assaulting his nostrils, he tries to breathe calmly and slow his heart-rate. There’s a sound that’s growing closer, easy to discern over the regular sounds of the city.

It’s a clicking, dry sound that makes him shudder.

 _Please no. Go away,_  he thinks desperately. _I didn’t do anything._ He knows he’s too weak from yesterday to really fight the thing off, can feel that’s he’s not at 100%. He really doesn’t want to die, especially not like this.

A sharp crack has Jackson leaning forward, against his better judgment.

There’s a broad-shouldered guy wearing a red hoodie standing at the mouth of the alley, back to Jackson. For some reason, there’s a defensive lacrosse stick in his hand and the guy hits the butt of it against the brick, making the _crack_ sound again.

Jackson wants to scream at the guy. All he’s doing is drawing the whatever-the-fuck closer. He opens his mouth but it’s too late.

The guy backs into the alley as the thing appears, jaw unhinged and a mouth full of needle-like teeth on display. The guy strikes out with the crosse, hitting the thing in the torso and drawing an angry hiss from the monster.

It lashes out with a claw-tipped hand, a swipe that the guy dodges before ducking and slamming the crosse against the thing’s torso again. The creature slumps a little and the guy brings the crosse up and over in a two-handed grip, slamming the stick down on the back of the creature’s neck, sending it crashing to the dirty ground.

The guy straightens to his full height, settling the butt of the crosse on the toe of his Converse. He looks down at the monster for a moment before murmuring something and watching as a small spark ignites over the body.

It catches fire with a sharp scent like a striking match. Once there’s nothing left except for dust and some nasty looking wet spots on the concrete, the guy turns around and quirks an eyebrow at Jackson.

And, _holy_ _fuck_ , Jackson recognizes him. “ _Stilinski?_ ” he pants in shock.

The corner of Stilinski’s mouth lifts the slightest bit and he asks, in a deeper voice than Jackson remembers, “What the hell have you gotten yourself into now, dude?”

Jackson has a sharp reply at the tip of his tongue but the ground reaches up to kiss his face before he can spit it out.

\-----

Jackson comes to in the elevator of his building. He lolls his head to the side and sees the side of Stilinski’s face. “Wuh…”

Stilinski chuckles, looking at him from inches away. “I got you, dude.”

Jackson closes his eyes.

He doesn’t sniff Stilinski’s neck. He doesn’t catch whiffs of McCall and Lydia’s perfume on the hoodie and it doesn’t make him feel slightly better.

He doesn’t nuzzle closer and press his forehead against the warm skin there, listening to the way Stilinski’s heart-rate picks up.

He _doesn’t_.

\-----

When Jackson opens his eyes, he stares at the ceiling of his bedroom. Well _that_ was a weird ass dream. He rubs his face and groans lowly, feeling like total shit. He pulls himself from the bed and frowns down at his jeans. He hates falling asleep in his jeans.

Shucking the denim, he pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, resolving that he’ll shower after he has coffee. He pads out to the kitchen and pulls the carafe from the coffee pot, sticking it in the sink to fill it with water, then puts coffee grounds in the filter.

He spots his phone on the counter and unlocks the screen. Pulling up his text messages, he sees the last entry, sent to BH.

**_Help_ **

He rubs his face again. The text was sent on Wednesday and his phone is telling him it’s Friday.

He’s torn between being hurt that BH didn’t text him back and wondering where the hell Stilinski fucked off to – because he suddenly remembers Stilinski beating the shit out of the snake-thing with a lacrosse stick.

The bathroom door opens and Jackson’s head jerks up.

Stilinski walks out, patting his hands on his jeans, and gives Jackson a lop-sided grin. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

Jackson stares at him for a moment, wondering what he’s still doing here. “Uh.”

“You were in no shape to be running around like that,” Stilinski says as he slides into one of the bar stools at the island counter, swiveling it back and forth a little before putting his elbows on the granite. “What gives?”

“I…”

Stilinski looks into the sink. “Your carafe runneth over, dude.”

The comment is so _Stilinski_ that it snaps Jackson out of whatever shock he’s in. He rolls his eyes and turns off the water. He drains a little water from the pot before turning and filling up the coffee maker.

“Thanks,” he grits out.

“No problem. It’s what I do.”

Jackson sneers over his shoulder. “Tell people that their carafes have too much water in them?”

Stilinski grins. “That and saving people’s asses from supernatural shit.”

His mouth twists. He appreciates that someone saved him, even if it was Stilinski, but BH not texting him back is still pulling at him.

“What’s the matter? You look upset.”

“I almost died.” _Again_.

“And?”

 _And you’re still here, in my apartment, being annoying._   He doesn’t say that part out loud. “ _And_ I sent a text to someone and they haven't answered me.” He frowns, wondering why he felt the need to share that.

“Okay,” Stilinski drawls, an amused curl to his mouth. "Why are you worried? Is it someone you like?"

Jackson almost doesn’t answer. He feels like he’s giving away something by talking about it. He looks over at where Stilinski is clearly waiting for an answer.

Oddly enough, despite the teasing in his tone, Stilinski's face is open and nonjudgmental which is strange to see directed at him. And, well, Jackson  _did_ bring it up.

“It’s someone from Beacon Hills that I’ve been talking to for a couple of years.”

Stilinski nods slowly, the smile falling from his mouth.

“It’s not a big deal. It’s… whatever.” Jackson maybe slams the lid of the coffee pot a bit harder than he means to. “It’s just…”

Stilinski makes an inquiring noise.

“Usually they text me back.” Jackson feels a little stupid saying this to Stilinski of all people, but he’s hurt.

It’s not like he and BH are _actually_ friends but… but maybe they _are_ friends, a little bit. They’ve been texting each other for years, after all.

"Are you worried?"

“No," he says out loud, pressing the button to start the coffee brewing. "It’s nothing.”

“Jackson.” Stilinski’s voice is softer than he’s ever heard it.

He looks up with a frown, confused by the look on Stilinski’s face. “What?”

“It wasn’t just luck that I was in town this morning. I came here for a reason.”

Jackson snorts. “And what is that? McCall got you running errands in Europe?”

Stilinski shakes his head. “I was actually visiting Isaac before this.”

“Lahey?”

“Yeah, he still lives in France and he’s got a new pack but,” Stilinski waves his hand, “that’s not the important part.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, unlocking it and sliding across the counter.

Jackson leans over, inspecting the screen.

 ** _J:_** **_Help_**

He jerks his head up, staring at Stilinski in shock.

Stilinski makes some kind of gesture with both hands and Jackson scrolls up on the message thread, sees his words, his responses.

He swallows hard and whispers, “You… you’re BH?”

“I guess so.” Stilinski nods, biting his lip before saying weakly, “Surprise.”

Jackson shakes his head hard, staring at Stilinski.

Sure, in a way, he’s maybe suspected for a while that it was Stilinski. It’s just difficult to equate the person he knew when he left Beacon Hills to the person he’s been corresponding with for the past five years.

Stilinski picks at a leather cuff on his left wrist. “I would have told you, but after a while, you stopped asking.” He shrugs. “And I wondered, if you knew it was me, would you stop talking to me? So I never mentioned it.”

Jackson blinks at him, takes in the slight slump of his shoulders and the downward curl of his lips, and states, “I need to take a shower.”

Stilinski gives him a strange look but nods. “Uh, okay. I’ll just… be here.” He gestures to the general area of Jackson’s living room.

“Right.” He goes into the bathroom and shuts the door with a soft click, reasoning that he’s not running away from Stilinski, he’s _not_. He just… really needs a shower. “ _Fuck_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it!
> 
> There're another couple chapters after this - gonna post the second one, like, right now haha.
> 
> kisskiss  
> ♡ Scotch


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See? Instantaneous. 
> 
> Shame more of my writing can't be like this. ;p

The first time Jackson gets a text from The Number, he narrows his eyes at the phone from where he’s elbows deep in a container holding his shoes. The unfamiliar text tone goes off again and he grabs his phone, flopping back on the bed.

**_Unknown Number:_** **_Picture Attached._**

He blinks at the screen, wondering if he just got a dick pic or something. He better fucking not be getting a picture of some rando’s dick.

Scowling, he clicks on the picture and turns the phone, trying to make some sense of what he’s seeing. It looks like birds, dead birds, feathered-bodies all over a classroom filled with glass and overturned desks.

**_What the hell is this?_ **

He stares at the screen, not bothering to lock his phone as he waits for a reply to come through. Almost instantly, his phone vibrates.

**_Unknown Number: That wasn’t for you. Ignore it._ **

At least he has some idea of who it could be texting him. Definitely one of the people from Beacon Hills involved with the werewolf bullshit because there’s no other reason for a classroom to be filled with dead birds unless there’s something stupid going on again.

He’s not sure why, but he texts back. He’s not a part of that life anymore – yes, he’s a werewolf, but he got his training on control from Derek and then he peaced-the-fuck-out. He’s _done_ with Beacon Hills.

But…

**_Who is this?_ **

**_Unknown Number:_** **_Does it matter? You left. It’s not your problem anymore so ignore the picture._**

He has the urge to tell this person that his parents _made_ him leave but he has no reason to justify himself. It’s probably that shit-stain Stilinski on the other end. He scoffs and tosses his phone onto his desk, organizing his room and folding his clothes. He doesn’t owe anyone a fucking explanation.

All through dinner, he’s distracted, thinking of what could possibly cause something like what he saw in the picture. He barely answers any of his parent’s questions about his first day at his new school, ignoring them in favor of going back and forth with himself.

He doesn’t owe anything to anyone in Beacon Hills, he didn’t really _want_ to leave, he _had_ to go or he would have died, they figured out a way to bring him back, they _did_ _this_ to him, because he asked them to, but not to turn him into a killing machine, they saved his life…

When he gets back upstairs, he angrily types a response, then another and another and another.

**_Who the fuck is this? Is this Derek? I told you to we were done when I left._ **

**_If this is one of the other werewolf brats, screw you and go fuck yourselves_**.

**_My parents weren’t going to stay there._ **

**_I didn’t have any reason to stay either._ **

**_Unknown Number:_** **_You love Lydia, don’t you?_**

Well _that’s_ a fucking cheap shot.

**_That’s none of your fucking business._ **

There’s no reply for a few hours so he puts the mysterious texts out of his mind and gets his clothes ready for school the next day. He hops into the shower and when he gets out, there are four new messages waiting for him.

One is from Danny, asking him to Skype soon. The other three are from – _of fucking course_ – the Unknown Number.

**_Unknown Number:_  ** **_It may not be my business, but I know you love her – or loved her once – otherwise you’d be dead._**

**_Unknown Number:_ _She misses you._**

**_Unknown Number: I think we all do a little bit. Isn’t that funny?_ **

Jackson doesn’t bother replying, just tosses the phone onto his bedside table and lies down, pushing away the stray thoughts pulling at him.

~

It’s weeks later before he gets another text from The Number.

When his phone goes off, he’s limping away from an alley, injuries taking too long to heal since it was an Alpha that just had him pressed against the dirty bricks and hissed into his face about being a murdering Omega.

He shakes it off, still solid in his stance that he doesn’t need a pack. The city’s big enough that no one pack controls it, so it’s not unheard of for there to be lone wolves living here, though they’re usually there for school and still technically _have_ packs, but that’s just semantics.

He makes his way to a public square, sitting gingerly on a bench to give his body time to work better. Pulling out his phone, he scowls at the notification.

**_Unknown Number:_** **_Picture Attached._**

Jackson opens the attachment. It looks like a tattoo, maybe, two bold black lines, the top one thicker than the bottom one, on someone’s upper arm.

**_What the hell is that supposed to be?_ **

**_Unknown Number:_** **_You weren’t supposed to get this picture either._**

**_Well I did. What the fuck is it?_ **

There’s a long enough pause that he’s sure the person isn’t going to reply. Eventually, after he can breathe without his ribs aching, his phone vibrates again.

**_Unknown Number:_ ** **_It’s Scott’s new tattoo._ **

**_I thought something like that would heal immediately?_ **

**_Unknown Number:_** **_In Samoan, “tattoo” means “open wound”._**

**_That doesn’t answer my question._ **

**_Unknown Number:_** **_I’m not your guru. Ask someone else._**

**_Unknown Number: I didn’t mean to send it to you, regardless._ **

**_I find it hard to believe that you “accidentally” sent me two pictures._ **

**_Unknown Number:_** **_Believe it. There’s no reason for me to be talking to you._**

**_Seriously, who is this?_ **

**_I could just trace your number if you don’t tell me who you are._ **

**_Unknown Number:_** **_Then trace it. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter._**

He huffs a laugh. There’s a part of him that really wants to trace the number, find out who it is that’s texting him pictures of dead birds and McCall’s tattoos. It could be Stilinski or Lahey, maybe even Boyd or Derek. It could be any of them.

And he could get Danny to trace the number for him, his friend probably wouldn’t mind, but… he sort of likes the mystery. He rolls his eyes at himself and gets to his feet, muttering in frustration when he sees the blood on his shirt.

Fucking Alpha assholes, thinking they can do whatever they want. He goes home and falls into bed, glad, not for the first time, that his parents are barely home.

When he wakes up the next day, he’s fully healed and feeling a lot better. He checks his phone. There’s a paragraph of information on werewolf healing and how to make tattoos stick waiting for him.

**_Unknown Number:_** **_Still not your guru._**

He bites back a smile and adds The Number to his phone.

He decides on ‘BH’ for the contact name. It could easily look like someone’s initials and his phone has random contacts in it now, anyways, from the few people at school that he can actually stand for more than a few minutes, so it works.

He’s not deluding himself to believe that someone would want to steal his phone and read his messages, but if they did, he doesn’t want to give them any reason to look too deep.

~

After that, he starts to get random texts from BH pretty regularly, little things that almost seem like sometimes the person isn’t even really texting someone else. When that happens, it feels like Jackson is where they send their thoughts when they’re trying to figure something out, like a sounding board that sometimes talks back.

Within the first couple of months, he ends up getting pretty well versed in different types of folklore, if Google can be counted as an information source.

Most of the texts are passing commentary, yes, but some of them contain terrible news. It’s… a _lot_ to take in. He’s got plenty of bullshit going on way closer to home, having to deal with asshole werewolves in other packs and hissed slurs from other creatures when he’s in public. But he looks forward to the messages, just the same.

In addition to the random news, he gets a list of names. The first time it happens, Jackson just shrugs, thinking nothing of it. But the third or fourth time he receives it, he understands. It’s like BH knows what he’s been thinking – that he’s wondering who, of the people he knows, is still alive.

The List is the Beacon Hills pack and the people that are pack-adjacent – like McCall’s mom and Stilinski’s dad. He’s always relieved to see Lydia’s name is still there.

Then, there comes a long stretch of time where he gets no texts from BH at all.

Jackson wouldn’t admit it out loud if anyone asked, not that anyone even _knows_ , but he misses the information from Beacon Hills. The last he heard, things seemed to be okay and the list of names had a couple new additions, people that Jackson guessed were part of the pack now.

But… the radio silence is strange, after always getting at least small snippets and updates. Even if they’re usually random, it’s sort of nice.

He contemplates sending a message first for once. He types out countless messages but deletes them all without sending them. He calls himself stupid for caring. He still doesn’t even know who it is he’s talking to – even though he could’ve traced the number for months now – and he tries to forget about it.

But what if BH is dead…

Eventually, he breaks. He ends up sending just one question mark, feeling like a fool right after he presses send but it’s out there now, so he waits. And waits. And waits.

When he finally gets a reply, he sort of wishes he hadn’t.

It’s The List. Again, he gets the huge spike of relief when he sees Lydia and Danny’s names and it looks like one or two of the new names are gone but there’s one specific name that’s missing.

_Allison_.

It knocks the breath from his chest, in a way that finding out Erica and Boyd were dead just didn’t. It’s not like he actively hated them or anything but… it just doesn’t seem possible that Allison is dead.

Jackson blinks his suddenly teary eyes, sniffing and wiping at his face. He’s not sure why it’s hitting him so hard. Maybe it’s that Allison was only ever good to him, even when he wasn’t so good – to himself or anyone else. He doesn’t count the locker room thing… _he_ was at fault for that or the messed up thing he became at the time was.

**_What happened?_ **

**_BH:_** **_Picture Attached._**

**_BH: Picture Attached._ **

He clicks the first picture, seeing a drawing of a shadowy being holding a sword.

_Oni, shadow warriors of Japanese lore that follow orders from a Master, appear from the shadows. They wield katana blades with deadly precision. They cannot be slain and will not stop until their orders have been carried out or the Master rescinds the demand._

The phrase “Master” makes him feel sick. He clicks on the next picture.

_Nogitsunes are a type of Kitsune (fox demons of Japanese lore) but whereas most Kitsunes seek to cause generally harmless mischief, Nogitsunes thrive on chaos and destruction and seem to wish simply for devastation._

Jackson frowns. He reads on and reaches a part of the Nogitsune lore that makes his chest tighter. He wonders if he should ask the question that’s pulling at him. He types it out and hits send before he can stop himself. He just… he needs to know.

**_Did the Nogitsune possess one of you?_ **

**_BH:_** **_Yes._**

It twists his stomach, makes bile crawl up his throat. He swallows hard, taking a deep breath to push the feeling away. He types the only thing he can think of.

**_Sucks to be controlled._ **

There’s no reply for a long time. Jackson puts his phone on the table and tries to focus on his homework. But his chest feels hollow and he ends up staring out the window instead, watching raindrops roll down the glass.

**_BH:_** **_It really fucking does._**

And with that, Jackson doesn’t need to ask who was possessed. It’s incredibly clear that BH, whoever it is, was the one that was possessed, the other thing inside controlling the creature that killed Allison. He chews on his lip, thinking hard for a minute before he responds.

**_It’s not your fault._ **

It’s three days before he gets a response this time, the longest amount of time that’s passed while an actual conversation is going on. He thinks about the text a lot, wondering why he sent something that he’s not even sure he believes himself.

In a way, the whole Kanima thing was his fault, at least partially. If he hadn’t pushed Derek to make him a werewolf, he never would have changed into a killing machine, a tool to be used at a crazy man’s whim. Well, two crazy men, if anyone’s counting.

Still, the reply he gets bugs him a little bit.

**_BH:_** **_Yeah._**

**_Look, if anyone knows what it’s like to be controlled, it’s me. It really isn’t your fault._ **

**_BH:_** **_You say that like you’ve actually forgiven yourself._**

Jackson scowls and has to push down the rush of anger that crawls through him. He takes a deep breath, eyes closed, before replying, perhaps a little more honestly than he means to.

**_I’m working on it._ **

**_BH:_** **_Good luck with that._**

**_BH:_ _I mean that sincerely even though it sounds sarcastic…_**

**_I think sarcastic might be an automatic setting for you._ **

**_BH:_** **_You have no idea._**

He smiles a little, for the first time in days, and gets to work on his English paper.

~

As the new school year starts, Jackson learns about a new werewolf that’s apparently McCall’s first beta.

**_BH:_** **_His name is Liam and he’s a little shit._**

**_Sounds familiar._ **

**_BH:_** **_Shut up._**

**_BH:_ _He’s blonde and got anger issues like whoa._**

**_BH:_ _Sounds familiar?!_**

**_Shut up._ **

There’s a dead pool and assassins and people dying left and right. There’s people called The Orphans and Kate Argent is alive again and causing problems – Jackson wasn’t really aware that she was dead or how she played into everything, other than she was the one that burnt the Hale house down, but whatever. It seems that she’s back and worse than ever.

**_A werejaguar? Is that even a thing?_ **

**_BH:_** **_I’m not even surprised. She was a monster before and now she’s ripping everything in reach to shreds._**

**_What a shit show._ **

**_BH:_** **_Truth._**

One of the deputies turns out to be a supernatural creature – he’s not really shocked, honestly. It’s freaking Beacon Hills. There seems to be more creatures than humans, most days. Still, when all is said and done, things seem to be okay and there are a few new names on the list.

**_So what is he? The deputy?_ **

**_BH:_** **_No one is sure. He got set completely on fire and walked away totally fine._**

**_BH: Lydia’s helping him figure it out._ **

Jackson sighs, feeling the familiar light tug in his chest when he thinks about his ex.

**_Is she good?_ **

**_BH:_** **_She’s seen better days. But you could say that about all of us, so…_**

**_BH: We’re alive, I guess, is the best you could say._ **

**_Yeah. Be sure to stay that way._ **

**_BH:_** **_Trust me, that’s my number one priority._**

Summer actually passes with no bad messages. He mostly gets random emojis and pictures. There’s a shot of the woods in the Beacon Hills preserve, the corner of Stilinski’s jeep and two pairs of bare feet, a blurry up-close shot of McCall’s head thrown back in laughter, a wide shot of the lacrosse field at the high school.

**_Looks like you’re having fun._ **

**_BH:_** **_Things are good here. You?_**

**_Decent. Know what college you’re going to yet?_ **

**_BH:_** **_Not quite, but I have plans._**

**_I’m sure you do._ **

**_BH:_** **_Shut up._**

Jackson smiles.

The list of names doesn’t change and he feels a little lighter for it.

~

Two days before Jackson starts his Senior year, he gets a picture of a beige surface covered in initials.

**_BH:_ ** **_Senior_ ** **_Scribe_.**

He sees LM, SM, SS, KY, MT – the initials of the pack. There’s another set that sticks out: AA. It makes him smile, just a little, and he gets the weirdest curiosity if someone put a JW down too. He brushes it off and doesn’t reply, a weird melancholy pulling at him.

Sometimes it seems like BH is the only one who remembers he ever lived in Beacon Hills at all.

A few days later later, he gets a text at three in the morning.

**_BH:_** **_How do you know if you can trust someone?_**

Jackson snorts, rubbing at his face. He doesn’t fucking trust _anyone_. Well, maybe BH, but even then, not totally. He goes with what he knows about BH when he answers.

**_Follow your gut. You’ve got good instincts._ **

**_BH:_** **_It’s been pointed out to me that I haven’t always had the best track record with trusting people._**

**_If something feels off, then keep it in mind._ **

**_Don’t jump to any conclusions but don’t brush it off either._ **

**_BH:_** **_Thanks._**

**_Of course._ **

**_BH:_** **_Sorry for waking you up. Go back to bed._**

**_It’s fine. Get some sleep._ **

**_BH:_** **_Never. :)_**

He smiles and rolls over, crushing his pillow to his face and falling back asleep almost instantly.

His smile doesn’t stick around long. The texts he gets over the next few months are horrible and he worries. A lot.

He has to shake his head at himself when he realizes it, that he’s worried about McCall and the others – has been worried about all of them for a while now and wonders about their well-being – and it’s all due to BH.

He gives BH as much advice as he can and waits for something good to come through, hopes that The List won’t grow shorter. Oddly enough, it actually gets larger when BH sends him an update. Jackson runs his eyes over the names, wondering who these people are, _what_ they are.

Then, all of a sudden, The List gets shorter. And shorter. The other texts almost stop completely.

**_Are you okay?_ **

It takes weeks to get a reply.

**_BH:_ ** **_Sorry about not answering… funerals._ **

**_Funerals blow._ **

**_BH:_** **_You have such a way with words._**

**_That’s what I’m here for._ **

**_BH:_** **_I appreciate it._**

Jackson smiles and locks his phone, getting his stuff together for the study session he has to go to. His phone chimes again.

**_BH:_** **_I appreciate you._**

Jackson could be an ass but he answers honestly, the way he always seems to when he’s texting BH.

**_I appreciate you too._ **

He’s at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn when he gets another message.

**_BH:_** **_That was so sweet… I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit._**

It makes him bark out a laugh, startling the woman standing next to him. She shuffles a few inches away from him but he doesn’t care. When the light changes, he strolls across the road, smile firmly in place.

~

One of the best texts he gets from BH comes at the end of May.

**_BH:_** **_Picture Attached._**

He quickly opens the picture, knowing he doesn’t have a lot of time before graduation, but he can’t help it.

It’s a stack of diplomas, snippets of names peeking out. The only name that’s clear is the one on the top diploma: Lydia Martin. The diploma’s got seals all over the bottom: Valedictorian, Suma Cum Laude, Honor Society.

**_Congrats. You made it._ **

**_BH:_** **_Yep. Good luck on your speech._**

**_Thanks. That makes me feel WAY less like puking._ **

**_BH:_** **_Break a leg._**

**_BH: Or both legs._ **

**_BH: Whichever. ;)_ **

**_Asshole._ **

**_BH:_** **_You love it._**

He rolls his eyes. He manages not to throw up, thank you very much, and he goes out with a few of the people from school that he actually likes – Dave and Audrey and Matthew and Seb. There are a few other people there too and he has a good time.

When he gets his diploma, he sends a picture of it to BH with his middle finger in the corner of the frame.

**_BH:_** **_Nice._**

**_BH: Proud of you._ **

**_Thanks._ **

~

College is remarkably calm for him. Things have relaxed a bit in his world – no more pushy Alphas or other creatures bothering him – and he’s actually enjoying the classes he’s taking.

Things seem to be going well for BH too, nothing too terrible happening.

**_BH:_** **_It’s like, once we all hit college, all the monsters were like, “Ah, shit, let’s give ‘em a break.” The only thing I’ve had to deal with was a lost troll and he didn’t even do anything other than break a couple park benches._**

**_BH: It’s anticlimactic is what it is._ **

**_I feel you._ **

**_BH:_** **_You know, I feel oddly cheated. I’m so much more prepared now for dealing with disaster than I was then. My useful skills are being wasted._**

**_Isn’t college hard enough for you? You texted me three days ago and told me you didn’t remember the last time you ate._ **

**_BH:_** **_Shut up._**

After that, it’s more of the same. BH talks about the people he meets – other people involved in the supernatural world and regular humans – and the classes he’s acing and the ones he’s not.

They spend a lot of time talking about the future. About what they want to do and what they’re interested in and the random elective classes they take. Jackson spends as much time texting BH as he does Audrey and Sebastian, combined – though he snapchats with the two of them and that’s over half of their communication right there.

And things are so good for both of them for so long that when things start getting weird for him, he hesitates, for the first time in years, to text BH about his day.

He knows BH would be the perfect person to talk about it with. Who else could understand what he’s going through better than someone who lived through everything that he lived through? Plus, Audrey and Seb don’t know about his furry problems, so.

But Jackson doesn’t want to ruin what looks like the most peaceful – college notwithstanding – time of BH’s life.

Though, when things start seeming less random and more specifically targeted to him, he opens the text thread and stares at the keyboard for a long time.

Which is probably how he ends up texting BH for help when he gets poisoned and Stiles Fucking Stilinski ends up showing up.

Goddammit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love ya, babbies.
> 
> kisskiss  
> ♡ Scotch


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more with feeling!!

Jackson knows he’s scowling when he gets out of the shower.

He can’t help it. He’s not sure how to fucking feel right now.

He’s excited and terrified and pissed as all hell and oddly nervous – like what the fuck?

It’s just  _Stilinski_ … who knows a lot about him and has been talking to him for five fucking years and might actually be one of his best friends?

“So who did you piss off?” Stilinski asks when Jackson storms back into the kitchen.

“No one,” he snaps, pulling open the fridge with too much force. Half the condiments rattle in place while the other half hit the tiles and shatter. “Goddammit.”

“Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time with werewolves.” Stilinski snaps his fingers and the glass bottles repair themselves and settle back onto the shelves.

“What the hell have  _you_  been up to? How can you do that?” Jackson asks, reaching out to touch the mended mustard bottle.

Stilinski rests his chin on his palm and blinks placidly. “I’ve spent a lot of time with some interesting people the past couple of summers.”

“Obviously,” he mutters, putting grabbing the creamer from the shelf and shutting the door more gently than he’d opened it.

“So, being serious.” Stilinski taps his fingers on the counter. “You really don’t know who’s been messing with you?”

Jackson shakes his head. “I thought maybe it was something like the dead pool,” he sees Stiles shudder minutely from the corner of eye, “but the things that happened were barely serious until Wednesday.”

“Tell me what’s been going on,” Stilinski prompts, then adds, “please.”

As sad as it sounds, when Jackson doesn’t have to look at Stilinski, he can pretend that he’s just texting BH.

He makes a cup of coffee and briefly touches on how a diner down the street suddenly had a mountain ash doorway, how the front door of his building had been tagged with silver paint – little things that didn’t necessarily mean someone was after him, just that things were kind of weird.

He then talks about the feeling of being watched on his way home from class, the way the elevator smelled sour and the air irritated his nose and eyes, the incident at the deli with the holly berries in his wrap.

“And you were there for the snake thing.” He puts the creamer back in the fridge.

“Lamia,” Stilinski supplies, looking off into the distance. “I’ll admit, it doesn’t seem like this was specifically targeted to you until maybe the last three times.” He flicks his gaze to Jackson’s face, asking softly, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jackson shrugs. “It didn’t seem like it was that bad until a couple days ago.” He fiddles with the spoon on the counter before using it to stir his coffee.

“This has been going on for weeks,” Stilinski states.

“Yeah.”

Stilinski hops off the bar stool. “Well, can’t say I’m happy that you kept this to yourself.”

“What was I supposed to do? Say, hey, there’s some weird stuff happening and I need your help?”

“Yes!” Stilinski shouts. The vehemence in his voice makes Jackson raise his eyebrows. “Friends help each other out.”

Jackson can’t take it anymore. “We are not friends!” he shouts back.

Stilinski snorts. “Oh, please. We _are so_ friends.”

“No,” Jackson waves his hand between them, “ _we_  are not friends. I don’t know how to be friends with you, Stilinski.”

The look that Stilinski gives him is half-betrayal and half-resignation. “You already  _are_  friends with me, Jackson. We’ve been friends for _years._ The only thing that’s changed is that I’m here.”

“Exactly.  _You’re_  here.” Jackson blows out a breath, rubbing at his hair. “I didn’t know it was you!”

“So you’re telling me that now that you know it was me behind all the texts, everything means nothing?” Stilinski sounds calm again, but his tone is flat and his face is blank.

“I don’t  _know_.” Jackson sighs, insides twisted up. “I’m not saying it’s  _nothing_ , I just…”

Stilinski shakes his head. “Well, this is going to make me staying here pretty awkward then.”

“What?” He shakes his head. “You’re not staying here. You’re leaving.”

“Oh the fuck I am.” Stilinski points to the living room where Jackson sees a book bag with its contents spilling onto his couch and the defensive crosse leaning against the wall. “That’s my base camp and I’m going to help you figure out what the hell is going on. I’m not leaving until I do.”

“Why?”

“Ugh! Because we’re  _friends_ , you shit head!”

“Jesus, why the fuck are you so adamant about this?”

“Because it’s the truth! Why are you so dead set on denying it?” Without waiting for an answer, Stilinski storms over to the couch and snatches his hoodie off the back, pulling it on. “I’m going to scope out the neighborhood, see if there’s anything else fishy going on.”

“I’m not letting you back in,” Jackson informs him angrily.

“Good luck keeping me out.” A wide, shit-eating grin spreads over his face. “If you lock the door, I’ll just melt the locks off.” With that, Stilinski sweeps out of the apartment, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.

“This is bullshit,” Jackson snarls into the empty room before stomping over and locking the door anyway, just to be spiteful.

He snatches his phone from the counter, intent to text Stilinski and tell him not to come back, or something, anything. But he sees the thread of their messages, the long rambling nonsense and the short, quick  _good lucks_  and the  _you got this_  messages.

He scrolls back further and further through the texts again, wondering why he never seemed to guess who it was on the other end. Because now it makes total sense. He growls and drops into his armchair to wait.

Because Stilinski is right – they’re  _friends_.

Ugh, how annoying.

True to his word, Stilinski comes back and gets into the apartment just fine.

He doesn’t melt the locks off, which Jackson appreciates, but he does pop the mechanism open like it’s nothing, strolling into the apartment and falling onto the couch with a groan. The force of his fall makes a throw pillow topple onto his face but he doesn’t move it, just lays there with his limbs sprawled all over the place.

Jackson observes all of this from his armchair. When the dust has settled, he asks, “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing that makes sense,” Stilinski complains, reply muffled by the pillow.

Jackson hums, picking at a loose thread on the armrest of his chair. “How did you find me on Wednesday?”

“Traced your phone.”

Jackson has to fight not to smile at the old dig. He studies Stilinski’s slumped form for a moment before stating, “We’re friends.”

Stilinski snorts, pulling the pillow from his face. “Yeah. We are.”

“Okay.”

Stilinski gives him a bemused look. “That it?”

“Yes. That’s all you get.” He feels a smirk pulling at his mouth.

“Well, it’s about what I expect.” The brunette sighs dramatically. “Guess I’ll have to accept it.”

Jackson rolls his eyes and pushes himself off the arm of the couch. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

Stilinski makes a vague motion at his book bag. “Me too.”

He sighs, rubbing his forehead as he walks away. “Don’t break anything.”

“I can put it back together,” Stilinski reminds him as he walks away.

“Shut up.”

Stilinski’s laugh follows him down the hall.

Jackson spends most of the afternoon cleaning and doing little things around the apartment. He tries to ignore Stilinski but it’s kind of difficult when the idiot is singing under his breath and tapping his feet and hands and fiddling with shit and his scent is spreading everywhere in Jackson’s apartment.

Hours later, he’s almost at his wit’s end, confused as to why his wolf seems to almost be purring in his head, and trying to put up the rest of his laundry when Stilinski calls out to him from the living room, “Are you expecting company?”

Jackson pauses, hanger held mid-air. “No. Why?”

“Someone’s coming down the hall.”

Jackson rolls his eyes and puts the shirt on the rack. “I’d ask how you know that but I don’t think I want the answer.” He walks out of the bedroom and pulls up short at the sight of Stilinski’s shirtless back. There are muscles there that Jackson doesn’t remember from the locker room after lacrosse practice.

There are also tattoos: curling along Stilinski’s ribs and over his shoulder blades and winding around his upper arms. Flowers and symbols and hands and faces and god only knows what else.

“You might,” Stilinski says, oblivious to the way Jackson is raking his eyes over him.

“I might what?” Jackson asks, having completely forgotten what they were talking about.

Stilinski huffs a laugh, still half-focused on whatever he’s doing. “You might want to know how I know someone is coming down the hall.” He tilts his head. “Actually, they’re at the door now.”

Jackson opens his mouth to tell him not to be weird when he catches a familiar scent and someone raps on the door three times.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“Who is it?” Stilinski asks, leaning back on the couch and craning his head to see.

“Seb.”

“Friend?” Stilinski waggles his eyebrows. “Or lover?”

“What?” Jackson wrinkles his nose in distaste. “No one uses the word ‘lover’ anymore, you dork.” The wide grin spread over Stilinski’s face makes Jackson want to punch him, a wonderfully familiar feeling. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Stilinski nods at the door. “Answer that.”

Jackson doesn’t answer – because he doesn’t actually hate Stilinski, not anymore – and pulls open the door. “Hey, Seb.”

“Hey man. You ready to go?” Seb pulls his arms in tight at his sides, shimmying his shoulders back and forth, singing, “We’re gonna par- _tay_.”

“Uh…” Shit. Jackson  _completely_  forgot.

“Oooh, a party!” Stilinski chirps from the living room. He leans further over the back of the couch and asks, “What’s the occasion?”

Seb drops his arms and gives Jackson raised eyebrows, mumbling, “Who’s the hottie?” He pushes past and sticks out his hand. “Hi, I’m Sebastian and today is my birthday.”

Stilinski grins, taking the outstretched hand. “Hi, I’m Stiles. Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you.” Seb turns glances at Jackson. “And how is it that you know Jack?”

There’s amusement in Stilinski’s eyes and he emphasizes the nickname. “ _Jack_  and I grew up together.”

“Ah, so you’re from California too.” Seb looks like he’s been given a gift and it makes Jackson want to growl for some reason. Seb falls gracefully into the armchair, shameless in his examination of Stilinski. “And you’ve been friends for years?”

Stilinski looks at Jackson, something almost shy in his eyes, and answers, “Known each other since grade school, friends for about five years.”

“He was a shit in high school, wasn’t he?” Seb asks in a stage-whisper.

“You truly have  _no_  idea.”

“Okay!” Jackson interrupts. “Well, if we’re done bashing on my teenage decisions, Seb-”

Seb folds his hands under his chin. “Don’t you  _dare_  cancel on me, Jack. Audrey is in Germany for work until next week, the bitch.” Seb rolls his eyes. “And everyone else that’s going to be there doesn’t matter as much as you.”

“Yeah,  _Jack_ ,” Stilinski says, “we can’t let the man down on his birthday.”

“It’s my twenty-first,” Seb pouts.

“Oh, man, now we definitely have to go!” Stilinski gets to his feet. “Let me grab a shirt and we can head out.” He rifles through his book bag and looks back at Seb – who’s staring like the lech he is. “Is your outfit an indicator of the dress code?”

Seb smiles slowly, predatory. “I’m sure you could wear a trash bag and they wouldn’t kick you out, sweetheart, but yes,” he gestures to his button up and dressy jeans, “it is a bit more upscale than a regular dive.”

“Damn.” Stilinski turns to Jackson with a sheepish smile. “Think you have something fancy I can borrow? All I have is t-shirts and hoodies.”

Jackson has to fight the urge to shout  _yes_  because the thought of Stilinski wearing his clothes makes him warm all over. He nods, jerking his thumb toward his bedroom, saying nonchalantly, “Be my guest.”

Stilinski nods and heads down the hall, humming the fucking Disney song under his breath, and it makes Jackson smile.

Seb gives him a single raised eyebrow.

“Oh shut up,” Jackson snaps, snagging his gray blazer off the back of the bar stool and shaking it out before pulling it on.

“He is  _delicious_ , Jack, good lord!” Seb fans himself, the dramatic diva, and asks, “Is there something going on I should know about?”

_Maybe?_  

Wait, what? No.  _No_.

“No,” Jackson snaps, tugging at his sleeves to straighten them. “We’re just friends.”

Seb hums. “Well, your  _friend_  is fucking hot and I might decide to have a slice for my birthday.”

Jackson ignores the thrum in his stomach and shrugs. “Whatever. It’s your birthday. Just don’t be a creep.”

Whatever Seb is going to say is derailed when Stilinski walks back into the room in one of Jackson’s long-sleeved Calvin Klein shirts. It’s the black one and, combined with the distressed look of Stilinski’s dark jeans – something that Jackson is certain comes from actual wear and tear and not being made to look that way – and his black boots, the shirt makes him look sleek and expensive.

He rubs a long-fingered hand through his messy brown hair then holds out his arms. “How do I look?”

Jackson runs his eyes over him again and totally concedes to Seb’s point – Stilinski  _is_  hot, like dangerously so.

“Happy Birthday to meee,” Seb croons and pushes himself out of the chair. “I’ve got two of the loveliest men escorting me.” He flutters his lashes. “I’m a regular belle of the ball.”

“You’re a pain in the ass is what you are,” Jackson grumbles, shoving his phone and wallet into his pockets. “Let’s go.”

Three hours later, Jackson is painfully sober and painfully aware that he lied to Seb earlier in the evening because when Alex cracks a joke then nudges Jackson, asking how he and his friend met, Stiles smiles, dipping his chin and looking up at Jackson from under his eyelashes. “We grew up together.”

It makes something flip in Jackson’s stomach and – since fucking when did Stilinski become ‘Stiles’ in his head?

But he fucking  _knows_.

He’s had to struggle to still think of Stiles as ‘Stilinski’ for ever since he found out Stiles was BH. Everything he thought about the guy was different now. Every nuance of his behavior was endearing somehow, because it equated to the mental image he had of BH, one way or another.

“Right,” Jackson agrees, reaching over Seb and nudging Stiles’ shoulder. “He was an asshole, though.”

Stiles snorts. “I wasn’t the only one.” He shrugs, smiling a little at Alex. “But we grew up, got over ourselves.”

“Well, I for one am glad that Jack has friends from back home.” Seb announces, slurring a little as he leans into Jackson’s side. “Sometimes I think you didn’t actually exist before your first day at Westwood.”

“I existed.” Jackson huffs a laugh. “I wasn’t a great person, but I existed.”

“You weren’t that bad,” Stiles says, then amends, “not  _all_  the time, anyway.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

Stiles just laughs, knocking back his beer.

The long line of Stiles’ neck makes Jackson swallow hard. Jesus, he warned Seb not to be creepy and here he is practically leering. 

_Get your shit together, Whittemore._

He focuses on another conversation, something about Alex having to go to the market last week for bread and ending up with a dog, and tries to ignore the voice in his head telling him to press his nose under Stiles’ ear.

Later that night, in the elevator on the way up to Jackson’s apartment, Stiles declares, “You know Alex is Fae, right?”

Jackson looks over at where he’s slumped into the corner. “No they’re not.”

“ _Yes_ , they are,” Stiles insists.

He rolls his eyes. “You’re just being weird again.”

The elevator doors open and Stiles pushes himself off the wall. “I’m not. They identify as agender and part of that is likely that they truly have no binary gender, like it literally isn’t even a thing with them.”

Jackson narrows his eyes, more than a little shocked that Stiles is acting this way about something like this. “They identify like that because that’s what they  _are_.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m not trying to bash them, dude. I’m just saying, it makes sense. Plus, I could totally sense Alex’s fae-ness.”

“That’s not a real word.” He unlocks the door and let’s Stiles go in before him.

“It is because I use it, thus it is real.” Stiles pulls his wallet and phone out of his pockets, putting them on the coffee table. “I’m really not being judgmental of your friend.”

“It seems weird that you would be,” Jackson admits, pulling down a bottle from the cabinet about his fridge. He shakes the bottle at Stiles. “Wolfsbane vodka?”

Stiles snorts. “Thank you, no. I’d rather not be puking for two days.”

“You say that like you have experience.” Jackson pulls down another bottle, this one a normal bottle, and grabs two shot glasses.

“I didn’t tell you?” Stiles asks, toeing off his boots.

“Nope.” Jackson sets up the glasses and pours the shots.

Stiles takes the glass and turns it a couple of times. “It was  _so_  bad. Lydia and I were helping build the newest pack house two summers ago and we were sick of putting up drywall.”

“They had you two putting up drywall?” Jackson interrupts.

“Yes.” Stiles grins at him. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

“I can’t see Lydia putting up drywall and I can’t imagine anyone trusting you with a nail gun.”

Stiles kicks him in the shin. “Dick.”

“Point.” Jackson leans back in the chair. “Continue.”

“I will.” Stiles raises the shot glass and Jackson raises his too. “Whew.” Stiles wipes the back of his mouth and sets the glass down. “Anyways, we found a bottle of booze in one of the kitchen boxes and decided we were gonna get drunk, since the rest of the pack was fucking off in the woods.”

Jackson grins, pouring himself another shot. “How did it taste?”

“Like ass.” Stiles laughs. “But we figured it was just cheap shit so we kept drinking. About a quarter of the way through the bottle, I started getting dizzy as fuck, but not like  _I’m drunk_  kind of dizzy.” He shakes his head. “Lydia looked at me, went totally white, and then puked all over my shoes.”

“Gross.” Jackson wrinkles his nose.

“It wasn’t even the first, second, or fuck, tenth time that one of the pack’s puked on me.” Stiles points at the bottle for another shot. “I passed out almost right after. Woke up in a kiddy pool in the backyard, still fully dressed, with Lydia crying about wanting a milkshake. It was like the worst high slash drunk ever.”

“Jesus.” Jackson laughs, almost unable to imagine it.

“It was terrible,” Stiles sighs.

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Jackson asks, “They really are Fae?”

“Yep.” Stiles taps his nose. “I can smell it.”

He rolls his eyes. “You can _not_.”

“Can too.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Jackson stands and brings the bottles back into the kitchen, only wobbling the slightest bit. “D’you think they know I’m a werewolf?”

“Oh yeah, totally.”

“Damn.” Jackson leans against the island and thinks about the implications of that.

“I’m sure they don’t care or they wouldn’t spend time around you.” Stiles puts his chin on the back of the couch. “Although, there  _are_  some Fae who  _really_  hate werewolves, so I’d be hella careful around them in the future.”

“I didn’t even know I was around one Fae. How would I recognize other ones?”

“Oh…” Stiles grins at him. “I guess you wouldn’t.”

Jackson rolls his eyes and heads down the hall. “Good night, Stiles.”

“We’ll look for them tomorrow.”

He glances back and sees a determined look on Stiles’ face. “More Fae?”

“No.” Stiles shakes his head, pulling off Jackson’s shirt and tossing it to him. “Whoever is trying to kill you. We’ll find them and we’ll handle it. I'm not going to leave until I know you're safe.”

Jackson feels the warmth in the fabric of the shirt against his hand. He has to fight not to raise the shirt to his face. “Okay.”

Stiles smiles again, his eyes soft. “Good night, Jackson.”

Jackson nods, turns on his heel, and goes into his bedroom. When the door is shut, he shucks his jeans and shirt and falls onto the bed. After a moment, he realizes that the shirt is still in his hand.

He feels like a creep, but no one is there to see him or judge him. He brings the fabric up to his face and inhales deeply, unable to help feeling warm and fuzzy at the way Stiles’ scent has mixed so perfectly with his own.

He feels pathetic and stupid and maybe a little drunk, but he leaves the shirt on his pillow, rubbing his cheek against it as he starts to drift off.

He’s sure, one way or another, that Stiles will help him figure everything out.

And after the threat is gone… well, he’ll just have to wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are maybe 2 more chapters for this? But I need to get the other stuff cleaned up and finish the middle of the last chapter. It should be done soon.
> 
> kisskiss  
> ♡ Scotch


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man oh man, this update took a while haha - jeez!
> 
> Finally got it worked out, though, so enjoy and please excuse any mistakes!

As it turns out, they don’t even have to go looking for anyone.

Alex shows up at Jackson’s the next day, their hands white-knuckled where they’re holding a piece of paper in their hands. “I need to talk to your friend,” Alex says as soon as Jackson opens the door.

Jackson thinks, _it’s too early for this shit_ , but doesn’t say it out loud. He opens the door wider and gestures for Alex to come inside.

They march straight over to where Stiles is sitting up on the couch, rubbing at his face.

“What’s going on?” he asks muzzily, blinking his big brown eyes up at Alex.

Alex marches up to the couch “This was on my windscreen this morning.”

Stiles takes the paper – careful not to touch Alex’s hand, Jackson notices – and scans it before looking at Alex sharply, all traces of sleep gone from his face. “Is this true?”

Alex grimaces, glancing at Jackson.

Stiles waves his hand. “He knows. I told him last night.” At Alex’s indignant sound, he sighs and points at Jackson. “Werewolf, which you already knew.” He points at himself. “Spark, which you probably guessed.”

“You really are Fae?” Jackson asks, studying his friend, wondering how he missed it or if Alex’s glamour is slipping due to stress.

“ _Yes_.” Alex rolls their eyes. “Look, I did some terrible things when I was… younger. I wasn’t always aligned with the light.” They swallow hard and smooth shaking hands over their shirt. “But I like my life here and I care about Dave a lot, so I’d appreciate it if you could help me.”

Their eyes flicker for a second, changing to ink black pools before going back to their usual human blue. They study Stiles for a moment, expression searching. “You’re the Emissary for the Beacon Hills pack, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Stiles swings his feet to the floor and stands, stretching his arms over his head. “Are you appealing for official assistance or just for my personal advice?”

Alex holds up their hands, looking lost. “I don’t have anything that I could bargain with that could get me official assistance from a pack like yours.”

Stiles’ eyes flick to Jackson then back to Alex. “I think we could work something out.”

“Really?” Alex’s shoulders drop from where they’d been climbing toward their ears.

Jackson looks between them, totally lost. Emissary? Official assistance? And why is McCall’s pack so important? Or is it the location more than the man? He resolves to ask when Alex is gone, sensing that his friend is probably too impatient for his questions right now.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Stiles warns, then drops a wink. “Not that you would.”

“Damn.” Alex cracks a smile, shaking their head. “You’re probably just as good as they say you are.”

“Probably,” Stiles echoes with a smile. “I have to call my Alpha, speak to a few contacts.” He grabs his phone and goes out onto the balcony that Jackson almost never uses, closing the door behind himself.

“He’s a legend, you know,” Alex says.

Jackson turns with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious.” Alex drops into the armchair. “Didn’t you know? You grew up there.”

Jackson shakes his head, perching on the arm of the couch. “The only one I’ve really kept in touch with is Stiles. We didn’t really talk much about that stuff in the last couple of years.”

“It’s an interesting pack.” Alex ticks off on their fingers, “The True Alpha, the Spark, the Wailing Woman, the Hellhound, the Kitsune, the Coyote, the Time Bomb Beta, multiple Chimeras – even their pack’s humans are a force to be reckoned with.”

They drop their hand to their lap. “Plus, they’re backed by the human law enforcement and medical center, and the Hunter base in the area.” Alex shakes their head. “No one fucks with the Beacon Hills pack.”

Jackson mulls it all over, glancing out onto the balcony where Stiles is moving his hand while he talks, the morning sunlight making his skin almost glow.

It’s definitely strange to learn all this from someone who wasn’t even there, who never lived through the bullshit of Beacon Hills, to hear that the bunch of teenagers that he ran around with are now famous among the supernatural community.

Stiles turns and smiles at Jackson, shooting him a goofy thumbs-up that makes him feel warm and fuzzy.

Jackson fully admits to himself, as Stiles pulls the phone from his ear, that he’s in serious trouble.

Stiles comes back inside, oblivious to Jackson’s internal freak out, and says, “Alright. We’re behind you. But we need to talk, privately, and hash out some details.” He ruffles around in his stuff. “Let me get dressed.” He pads off down the hall and goes into the bathroom.

“I know that you’re probably wondering why I didn’t say anything about my past,” Alex says with a sigh.

“I didn’t exactly announce that I was a werewolf.” Jackson shrugs, reaching out to touch Alex’s leg with his toe. “It’s fine.”

Alex smiles tentatively at him. “We’re still friends, right?”

“Of course we are.”

Stiles reappears in the room, in a fresh t-shirt and a pair of jeans that are slightly less ratty than his other pair. He jerks his head at Alex. “Let’s go to the coffee shop near your place so I can see about replying to this.” He holds up the note and gets a nod from Alex, then tells Jackson, “Take a shower. I’ll bring back coffee and pastries.”

Jackson frowns, feeling a little like a kid left behind while the adults talk.

Stiles, reading him like a book, squeezes his shoulder a little and smiles before he follows Alex out.

Jackson stares after them and sighs, deciding to get some more sleep.

If he feels like a rebel defying the Great Spark Stiles’ order to shower, well, then no one has to know except for him.

When he wakes up, some unknown amount of time later, Stiles is sitting against his headboard, flipping through a magazine and eating a scone.

“You are _not_ eating in my bed,” Jackson growls, not even bothering to comment on the fact that Stiles is getting his scent all up in Jackson’s sheets.

“I am, actually,” Stiles says through a mouthful of cranberry and bread. “But I have a napkin over me, practically a bib, really, so don’t get your panties twisted.”

Jackson grumbles and rubs his face against his pillow for a moment before he peeks up, studying Stiles from under his eyelashes.

He likes the way Stiles looks in his bed.

Clearing his throat, he asks, “What was on the paper?”

Stiles frowns, shaking his head a little. “I can’t tell you that because it’s not my business.” He takes a bite of a cookie next and Jackson wonders if he’s conjuring them or if there’s a box somewhere. “If Alex wants you to know, they’ll tell you.”

“Fine.” Jackson sniffs out the baked goods and sits up, leaning over Stiles’ legs to get to the pink box on the nightstand. When he leans back, danish in hand, he hears Stiles’ heartbeat flutter a bit. “What?” he asks, taking a bite.

Stiles smirks at him, shaking his head like he’s got a secret. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Hmph.” Jackson settles back against his pillows and, when Stiles moves the box between them, grabs another danish. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We wait.”

“Seriously?”

Stiles nods, licking his fingers and closing the magazine. He tosses it onto the floor and sighs. “I reached out to the person who left the note. Now we’ll see if there’s anything that can be resolved or if we’re gonna end up fighting.”

“I really wish you’d tell me what’s going on,” Jackson gripes.

Stiles yawns and nods. “Whenever I get the reply, you’ll find out.”

“And until then?”

“We could play a guessing game,” Stiles suggests sarcastically, scooting down until his head is on the pillows. “Or you can shut up and let me get some more sleep.”

“Why can’t you sleep on the couch?” Jackson’s _not_ freaking out. Well… maybe he’s freaking out just a _little_ bit… fuck.

Stiles snorts. “I’m already here and I’m not getting up. If it really bothers you, _you_ go sleep on the couch.”

“This is _my_ apartment,” Jackson protests.

“And yet,” Stiles counters, his voice already dragging into sleep, “I don’t care…”

Jackson debates the idea of moving to the couch, or shoving Stiles onto the floor, but instead he huffs and puffs and settles back against his pillow.

As he closes his eyes, he enjoys the feeling of another person in his bed. When he inhales, he gets the combined scents of him and Stiles and it makes it even better.

 _Stupid_ , he thinks as he drifts off, _stupid, stupid, stupid_.

Stiles wakes him up later by hitting him with a pillow.

Snarling, he sits up, batting the pillow away. "The fuck?"

“I finally got the response I’ve been waiting for,” Stiles tells him from his place by the door. “Apparently, there's an Alpha who’s been trying to establish himself and his pack as the best in the city. He’s totally willing to attack other preternatural creatures to show his dominance. According to a couple of my sources, he’s already killed several people and he’s got his sights set on you _and_ Alex.”

It's a lot of information to process at once. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. You need to get ready in fifteen minutes.” At Jackson’s incredulous look, he explains, “They want to meet tonight and I’m not willing to wait too long, just in case they decide to do something bigger to get to you.” He pauses on his way out of the room. “Seriously, fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jackson waves him off and wonders what the hell would possess an Alpha to believe that he has so much power over every other creature in the city. Also, there's the fact that Stiles just said he's not willing to let anything happen to Jackson, which has him feeling all sorts of strange.

“Jackson!” Stiles shouts.

He blows out an exasperated breath. “What?!”

“Shake a leg! We gotta go!”

“I heard you the first time!” He scrubs his hands over his face before going into the hall. Stiles looks at him with a smirk and he glances down at his bare chest. _Right_ , _clothes_. “Let me grab a shirt first.”

Stiles nods. “Yep, you should do that, or you know, don’t.” He shrugs. “Maybe we can distract the other werewolves with your eight pack.” He rounds the corner into the kitchen, laughing lowly at his own joke.

 _Weirdo_.

Jackson goes back into his room and emerges fully dressed.

In the kitchen, Stiles is in his red hoodie again, smelling faintly of _nothing_ , which is incredibly bizarre.

“You don’t smell like…” Jackson sniffs the air, “anything. What the hell?”

Stiles grins. “It’s an herbal trick I use almost all the time when I’m not home and meeting with new packs.” He waves his hand. “If we live through this, I’ll explain how to make it.”

Jackson’s mildly good mood shifts at Stiles’ words.

That’s right, they’re going to confront a crazy Alpha on his turf. Yeah, not suicidal in the least.

“We’re gonna die.”

“Maybe.” Stiles bares his teeth in a feral sneer as he pulls on a pair of finger-less gloves. “But we’ll probably take a few of them with us.”

“That’s remarkably optimistic.”

Stiles shrugs. “I like being optimistic.” He slides the crosse into a sheathe-like thing over his shoulder and his eyes are dark as he adds, “And violent.”

Tamping down the urge to press his face against the base of Stiles’ throat, he manages to croak out, “Noted.”

“But of course, my first objective is always peace,” Stiles says mockingly and rolls his eyes, heading toward the door.

\-----

However, peace is the last thing on either of their minds when they get to the rendezvous point and Jackson immediately gets hit in the arm with a dart.

He snarls when it hits and Stiles grabs his arm, keeping him on his feet.

“The fuck…” The brunette snatches the dart from Jackson’s skin and examines it, sniffing it and looking for all the world like he’s about to lick it.

“Do _not_ fucking do it,” Jackson warns.

Stiles grins like _who, me?_

Before Jackson can snap anything else, there’s a giggle from the shadows near the door. The combination is more than a little creepy and Jackson growls back, but he’s starting to feel a little… fuzzy.

“Drugs,” he breathes.

Stiles nods, his face grim. “Figured as much. We need to make this fast.” In a louder voice, he shouts, “Hey, quit firing shit at us! We’re here to talk.”

“So talk,” a young girl demands, appearing suddenly next to the warehouse entrance.

Stiles and Jackson walk over, Stiles reaching out and gently steadying Jackson when he stumbles.

“Well, aren’t you just cute as a button? Are you lost?” Stiles taunts the girl. "I'm only asking since you can't possibly be the Emissary I'm supposed to be meeting."

The girl smiles and steps forward. She tilts her head cutely and pops her fist out, smacking it solidly into Stiles’ mouth.

Jackson growls. It’s not that he’s never thought about popping Stiles in the mouth before – he’s an annoying fucking smartass – but it makes him furious just the same.

Stiles laughs, patting Jackson’s shoulder. “It’s fine, dude. I kinda deserved that.” He turns to the girl and gives a small bow. “Apologies. I'm not in the best mood right now. If you could guide us, we’d like to have a word with your Alpha.”

The girl sniffs and jerks her head toward the door. It opens and she gestures them inside.

Jackson doesn’t like her behind them but follows Stiles in without protest, trusting that the Spark’s attention will be on important things so he can look around. It looks like a bakery, smells like one too – yeast and sugar and vanilla – but on a large scale, like the business mass-produces pastries.

Stiles stops walking and Jackson moves to stand next to him, noting the crowd of werewolves all around them, all staring blankly as they flank a throne-like chair that's set up on the top row of risers that would look at home at a choral concert.

“Well, well, well,” comes a jovial voice, “if it isn’t my favorite murdering little Omega.” A laugh echoes in the large space. "Strange to see a useless bug of a wolf associating with a Spark of such magnitude, but there's no accounting for taste these days."

And out of the shadows behind the chair steps the ass-face who beat him up years ago, right before he got a text from Stiles about tattoos. Not that he knew it was Stiles at the time, but…

 _Focus_ , he tells himself, trying to fight past the growing grip of the drugs.

“He’s not an Omega,” Stiles informs the room at large, his smile bloody from the Emissary’s sucker punch. It makes him look more than a bit wild when he declares, “He’s my pack.”

“Hah! You think I can’t tell when there’s an Omega oozing his way around my city.” The Alpha’s eyes gleam with rage and more than a little madness. “He’s been here for _years_ , stinking up the place. Nothing you say can change that, even if you are who you are.”

“The city isn’t held by just one Alpha,” Jackson growls, imagining sinking his claws into the crazy bastard’s face. “There are multiple packs here.”

“But only one that matters, Omega,” the Alpha almost-croons, his smile wide and eerie.

Jackson tenses, ready to fuck this guy up, all else be damned, when Stiles clears his throat.

When he looks over, Stiles asks, “Jackson, are we pack?”

Jackson’s not sure if he’s really a part of _McCall’s_ pack, the famous one that's well-known and slightly feared and definitely respected. But he does know, has known maybe since Stiles showed up, that he considers  _Stiles_  pack. He answers, “Yes, we are.” There's a burst of satisfaction in his chest and his wolf purrs.

Stiles gestures at Jackson like _see?_ and shrugs at the Alpha. “I told you he’s part of my pack. He's not an Omega, hasn't been for quite a while.”

“Lies,” the Alpha hisses, sounding remarkably like the snake thing that came after Jackson.

Jackson’s distracted, thinking about the fact that Stiles has just claimed him in front of all these other wolves and also trying to think of the name that Stiles called the snake thing, so he’s taken by surprise when one of the other wolves launches forward. He tries to move but he stumbles and the other wolf catches him across the ribs.

Stiles shouts and there’s a flash of light and another one of the wolves hits the floor, her body convulsing.

Jackson tries to fight back against his attacker but his feet feel like lead and another wolf catches him in the thigh, spinning him around.

He hits the ground hard, chin snapping up and making him bite his tongue. His mouth fills with blood as he gets to his feet, staggering when another wolf gets a hit on his arm and his back.

“Fuck,” he hears Stiles hiss, and sees another werewolf fly away from the Spark, blood bright against Stiles' hands.

“Leave,” he almost begs. He doesn’t want either of them to die there, but at least Stiles can get away.

But instead of listening to Jackson’s plea, Stiles grins at him and winks.

Stiles’ brown eyes flash red, as red as any Alpha’s, and his body shudders as he bares his teeth at the crazed Alpha. It almost looks like he’s got fangs and claws when he snarls and slashes his hands in the Alpha's direction.

At first, Jackson doesn’t think that whatever Stiles did had any effect since the Alpha just grins, clearly ready to walk down and handle Stiles and Jackson personally.

As much as he’d like to tear into the guy, Jackson’s breath wheezes and he thinks he might not be in the best shape to fight.

Stiles doesn’t move, doesn’t raise his hands or chant or anything, just watches as the Alpha descends slowly down the stupid risers.

Before he steps onto the floor, though, the crazy Alpha freezes, hands raising to his chest where claw marks appear, tearing cloth and flesh and sending a small hex bag to the floor along with a splash of blood.

The Alpha opens his mouth as a hand juts through his chest before disappearing again. Gaping like a fish, the Alpha falls, his eyes rolling up into his head. As soon as his body hits the ground, the other werewolves drop to the floor too, like puppets whose strings have been cut.

There’s two wolves still standing: a man with dark, curling hair and bright green eyes and another with gingery hair and pale skin covered in freckles.

Stiles steps closer to Jackson and stands over him, using his body as a shield in case the remaining wolves try to attack.

“Well met, Spark Stilinski of the Beacon Hills pack,” the dark-haired man says formally. He’s handsome, despite the blood covering both hands up to his wrists. He shakes off his hands and steps over the body of the former-Alpha. “I am Charles, new Alpha of the Blackfriar Bridge pack.” His eyes flash red as he puts a hand to his chest, giving a small bow. “I thank you.”

Stiles lifts his chin and asks, “For what?”

“You helped break the spells,” the second man explains, motioning to the floor where several hex bags litter the tiles. He tosses his hair from his eyes and explains, “The majority of our pack is really chill and totally normal most of the time, but it’s hard enough to resist an order from your Alpha without adding magic in to make it worse.”

“He was controlling you with magic?” Stiles asks, squinting at the redhead. "Who are you again?"

“I'm Damian, Charles’ Second.”

“Well isn't that nice,” Stiles simpers. "I assume that since he's dead," he gestures at the body on the floor, "we won't be having any more problems from your pack. So can we leave now, or what?”

“There will be no more problems with this pack going after your pack mate or any other beings unless they are causing trouble,” Charles tells Stiles. “But before you go, we have a proposition. We would like to treat with your pack.”

Stiles studies the other man for a moment. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Charles nods, “we believe that there is a mutual benefit to both our packs by establishing an agreement.”

Stiles hums. “You understand that I have to speak to my Alpha first, but we could discuss a treaty another time.”

“Of course,” Charles says with a small smile. “We look forward to it.”

Damian sends a concerned look Jackson’s way. “Do you need assistance with your injured pack mate?”

“I think you’ve got enough injured wolves to look after, don’t you?” Stiles smiles and nods at the fallen wolves before leaning down and grabbing Jackson’s arm, pulling it across his shoulders. To take the sting out of the jab, he adds, “I appreciate the offer though.”

Charles nods, his eyes on the wolves in his pack. “It’s the least we can do, after your service to us.”

The wolves that are standing move aside and Stiles guides Jackson through the mess toward the door.

A part of Jackson still can’t believe that he and Stiles are both walking out of the building alive, if a little damaged. He flashes his eyes at the girl standing at the door when she sends a grin Stiles’ way.

Looking rather unaffected by the death of her former Alpha, she calls cheerily, “Have a lovely evening, gentlemen.” Then she slams the door behind them.

“I hate cobblestones,” Stiles grumbles randomly as he heads down the alley.

“What?” Jackson slurs, trying to keep his head up and his feet moving.

“They’re all uneven and crooked and they make my legs hurt.” He tightens his grip on Jackson’s arm and directs them back toward Jackson's apartment.

Jackson grunts, confused as to why Stiles is ranting about cobblestones of all things. It starts to rain right as they reach the sidewalk and Stiles sighs, starting another mumbled stream of complaints about some other random topic.

The sound of Stiles' voice gives Jackson something to focus on as he tries to put one foot in front of the other and not fall down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know this may have been a little confusing, but it's sort of from Jackson's perspective and he spent a lot of this chapter either sleepy or drugged, so you'll have to forgive him if he's a bit of an unreliable narrator.
> 
> It'll all get explained next chapter which will likely be up sometime this week, depending on how busy the next few days are.
> 
> So, until then!
> 
> kisskiss  
> ♡ Scotch


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE FINAL CHAPTER.

Jackson clearly loses some time because, suddenly, they’re stepping into his elevator.

“You’re okay,” Stiles assures him, “you’ve just lost enough blood that the drug’s gonna start making you totally loopy any time now.”

“You know what it is?”

“Mhm, I think so. A quick tonic and a good night’s rest and you’ll be fine.” Stiles leans against the wall and shuts his eyes, the skin underneath them looking dark as bruises.

“You okay?” Jackson asks.

“Yeah.” Stiles swallows hard and opens his eyes, looking up at the passing floor numbers. “Channeling Scott’s power is always pretty draining.

“What?”

“Cutting up the Alpha.” He makes a half-hearted claw with one hand and curls his lip in a snarl. “I did it by pulling on Scott’s power. I’ve only done it twice before, on purpose. The other times were all accidents, no matter what Deaton says.” He drops his hand and stands up straight as Jackson’s floor comes up. “I’ll tell you about it some time when we’re both less tired.”

When they get into the apartment, Stiles leads Jackson to the bathroom and props him against the counter. He rips Jackson’s already shredded shirt to pieces with his bare hands and Jackson has to swallow hard.

“Damn, they fucked you up pretty bad,” Stiles mutters, grabbing a hand towel and running it under the faucet before wiping at Jackson’s chest and sides.

Jackson bites his lip, making himself stay quiet, even when Stiles undoes the button on his pants and slides them down to examine the cuts on his thigh.

When he’s done cleaning and bandaging the worst of the wounds, Stiles leaves Jackson in the bathroom, returning with a cup in his hand.

“Drink this,” he orders.

He almost asks what’s it in but decides against it and just drinks it down, even though it takes terrible. He groans and hands the empty cup back to Stiles, who grins and disappears again.

Jackson catches sight of himself in the mirror and smiles goofily, feeling drunk and flossy as whatever it is that Stiles gave him kicks in.

“Those bastards fucked up my good shirt,” Stiles bitches from the living room before reappearing – _shirtless again, goddammit_ – and striding intently toward Jackson, hand reaching out.

He jerks back. “What are you doing?” He doesn’t trust himself, not this close to Stiles, especially when he’s just standing in his boxer briefs.

“I’m going to scent you so that your wolf stops freaking out, okay?” Stiles says gently. “We’re pack, officially now since you’ve finally recognized it, but we don’t smell like it. That and the drugs are making it want to come out and if you shift right now, I can’t guarantee you wouldn’t hurt someone. Or yourself.”

Jackson nods, forcing his gaze up to take in the worried look on Stiles’ face. “Fine. Just… do it quick, I guess.”

At first, Stiles just steps closer, occupying the same few inches of space that Jackson in. It’s fine, doesn’t bother him, but it’s not really doing anything to calm the wolf.

Then Stiles’ hands come up and the brunette presses his fingers against the side of Jackson’s neck, moving until his whole hot palm is pressed there.

Jackson can’t stop the sound he makes as Stiles adds his other hand on the other side of his neck, heat radiating up and making his brain feel like mush.

Stiles’ hands drag slowly down the sides of his neck and press against his collarbones.

He can’t help himself. He groans, “Stiles…” He licks his lips, watching as Stiles’ eyes follow the movement.

And… and what if Stiles were to lean in and press their mouths together? What would happen then?

He must say some of that out loud because Stiles sighs, shaking his head a little. “Werewolves,” he seems to say under his breath before clearing his throat. He says matter-of-factly, “You’re drugged, Jackson.”

“M’not,” Jackson murmurs, moving closer, hands finding the firm slope of Stiles’ waist, “not much anymore. Feel drunk.”

“Drugged or drunk, you’re inebriated enough that this isn’t okay.” Stiles raises one eyebrow, a smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. “No matter how much I’d like to kiss you right now.”

Jackson smiles. “You wanna kiss me?”

Stiles nods, taking a deep breath. “I really do.”

“You, uh, you should.”

“I can’t. Not right now,” Stiles sighs. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“Taking me to bed.” Jackson smirks as Stiles takes him by the hand, laces their fingers together, and pulls him toward his bedroom.

“Yep.” Stiles keeps pulling until he gets Jackson even with the bed, pushing gently.

Jackson falls back, laughing a little as he bounces until Stiles starts to walk away. He grabs onto Stiles’ wrist. “Wait! Stay, I…” he swallows hard, panic suddenly creeping closer, “I won’t do anything, I promise. I just…” He tries to hold in the whine that’s threatening to climb out of his throat. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Stiles looks at him for a minute. “I’m going to shower, okay? Then I’ll come back.”

“Promise?”

Stiles nods, gently breaking Jackson’s hold and pulling the covers up. “I promise.”

“Okay.” He lies back and waits, his eyes slipping closed as the shower starts up.

He jerks awake when the bed moves and he watches as Stiles slides underneath the covers, lifting his arm when he settled and giving Jackson a look like _come on, I know you want to cuddle me_.

Shamelessly, Jackson immediately moves closer, putting his nose right at the base of Stiles’ neck, arm around his waist. He’s out in seconds.

When Jackson wakes up, it’s to a pillow shoved under his face and a nose full of Stiles’ scent. He groans, partly because his head is pounding and partly because he remembers the hands on his neck, pressing, the admission that Stiles wants to kiss him.

He picks his head up from the pillow and listens hard. Stiles doesn’t seem to be in the apartment at all and a cold shock of panic pulls at Jackson’s chest. He scrambles up to snatch his phone from the night stand, certain that Stiles wouldn’t just _leave_.

Sure enough, there’s a text waiting for him.

**_BH: You were out of coffee so I went to that place on the corner. Be back soon._ **

Twenty minutes after the first one, there’s a second message that has him pulling on clothes and out the door in moments, despite his aching head.

**_BH: Met a friend of yours. Apparently, she recognized the shirt I stole from you. Name is Audrey. Seems legit. Will kill if not._ **

\-----

The second Jackson enters the coffee shop, he hears Audrey announce regally, “Ah… there’s Sleeping Beauty now.”

The two of them are sitting in one of the small areas arranged around a table, Stiles on a couch and Audrey in a wing-back chair.

“I retract my statement,” Audrey states, looking him up and down. “You are a mess. Are you ill?”

“No, I just,” he waves his hand in the air, “got a little too drunk last night.”

Audrey’s smile sharpens and she takes a sip of her drink. “‘Too turnt for a Tuesday’?”

“Something like that,” Stiles laughs, patting the seat next to him. “Come on, Jackson, sit down. I’ll buy you a cappuccino.”

Jackson’s stomach clenches a little and he shakes his head, moving toward the counter. “I think I’ll just get some water.”

He goes and gets in line, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation.

Stiles, clearly aware of what he’s doing, uses a moment when Audrey’s digging in her bag to chide softly, “You didn’t have to come flying down here like a bat out of Hell. I wasn’t _actually_ gonna kill her.”

Jackson snorts and, ignoring the strange look he gets from the woman in front of him, smiles. When he gets back with his water, he sits next to Stiles, enjoying the way the Spark drapes his arm over the back of the couch.

Audrey, sharp-eyed like a hawk, sees it and asks, “So, Stiles, you’re in Uni too, right? What year?”

“About to start my last year, thank god.” Stiles grins, looking nervous and relieved in equal measure. “Oddly, I’m looking forward to it.”

Of course, because Stiles is leaving, _has_ to leave.

Jackson’s stomach sours even though he knows, logically, what was always going to happen. “Right,” he says, even though Stiles wasn’t talking to him.

Stiles looks at him then away with a quiet sigh, clearly understanding the shift in the mood. “I’m gonna…” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder and goes back up to the counter.

Jackson hears him ask the barista for a refill, having to rein himself back when the girl grins flirtatiously at Stiles as she tops off the coffee.

“Jesus, Seb said it was bad but I didn’t believe him,” Audrey drawls.

“Stop,” he warns, glaring at her. “Don’t do this right now.”

Audrey rolls her eyes. “I’m not _doing_ anything, Jack. But really,” she leans forward, speaking lowly, “you’ve got it so bad for him, a complete stranger could see it.”

“We’re not like that,” he insists, but _oh god he wishes_. He pushes the thought away, reminding himself that Stiles will end up in Beacon Hills one way or another, since he’s McCall’s Emissary. “Besides, he’s leaving. He has a life and it’s not in London.”

Audrey gives him a long look, leaning back in her seat. She murmurs, “It could be, if he had the proper motivation.”

Jackson shakes his head at her as Stiles makes his way back over. He can’t explain to her what’s really going on, everything that’s happened, and even if he could – what the hell good would it do?

It won’t change a damn thing except she’ll end up looking at him with pity instead of mildly-veiled frustration.

“Audrey,” Stiles says with a sheepish smile, “I really hate to cut this short, but I have to stop back by Paris before I go home, so I have to head out.”

“Oh, well.” Audrey smiles up at Stiles. “It was really nice to meet you. Hopefully, we’ll get to hang out longer the next time you visit.”

Stiles smiles. “Hopefully.” He looks at Jackson. “Walk me to the station?”

Jackson nods. “Sure.” He leans over and kisses Audrey’s cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Mm, yes. Shoo, shoo.” She flaps her hand at him.

He shakes his head and jogs to catch up with Stiles.

“I like her,” Stiles tells him, grinning. “She reminds me of Lyds.”

“Hmm,” Jackson agrees, having seen some of Lydia in Audrey before. “So, the station? You’re taking a bus?”

Stiles laughs. “Actually, I’m planning on building a Way, but I couldn’t say that to your friend.” He goes inside the lobby and steps up to the elevator.

“What’s that?”

“Remember when I was interested in magical travel?”

Jackson remembers just fine. “You mean when you bitched for three weeks that they shouldn’t have put something like that in Harry Potter if it wasn’t possible for real magic users?”

Stiles narrows his eyes before sticking out his tongue. “Yes. That.” He waits until they’re in the elevator before he says, “And I need to figure out what the hell happened with the Blackfriar pack.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they didn’t just end up like that, all controlled by magic.” He shakes his head. “Also, I don’t appreciate being used and neither does Scott. We pretty much figure that’s what happened with Charles and Damien. They needed someone to take out the magic aspect so that they could kill the Alpha.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

“The magic or having someone else help you kill your Alpha?”

Jackson shifts his weight as the elevator comes to a stop. “Both?”

“Eh,” Stiles shrugs, “I suppose but it’s more that I’m wondering where the magic came from. That girl was strong enough to maintain the spells but she did not make them, I’m sure of it.” He steps out of the elevator and adds, “Honestly though, I’m more irritated about the fact that he came after you.”

Jackson doesn’t comment on that, but there’s a flush of pleasure that curls in his chest. He clears his throat and asks, “Do you think it was intentional? Coming after me and Alex?”

“Not sure. He clearly knew you from before, so I’d say maybe ‘fortuitous’ for them, rather than something they actively did.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think that Alex was connected other than the fact that they’re Fae and happen to be your friend.”

Jackson unlocks the door and steps aside, letting Stiles in before he shuts and locks the door.

Stiles continues: “Coincidences do happen, though not often, and I’ve dealt with enough Alphas at this point that I don’t really assume that they’re totally innocent when it comes to power shifting. So, like I said, I need to explore some channels and see if I can get to the bottom of it.”

“Do I need to avoid them, then?” Jackson tosses his keys on the island and grabs a bottle of water.

“Not necessarily.” Stiles grabs a shirt from the back of the couch and folds then rolls it. “The Blackfriar pack will be a point of connection for your wolf, that way you can safely be around a pack on full moons. If they want a truce, we’re going to give them one, even while I’m investigating.”

“I don’t need to be around a pack during the full moon,” Jackson gripes. “I’ve managed this far without one.”

“I know you don’t _need_ to,” Stiles agrees. “But being part of a full moon run with a pack is unlike anything else.” He sounds wistful when he adds, “Running through the Preserve back home is incredible, dude. I bet it’s pretty cool here, too. I wonder where they go?”

“Hmph.”

“The park maybe?” He mutters to himself, then shrugs. “Also, Alex is gonna look out for you too.”

“I don’t need Alex to watch out for me,” Jackson gripes. “They’ve got their own life to live.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve already talked to them.” Stiles rolls his eyes at Jackson’s scowl. “Alex is happy to look out for you and besides, this is an easy way for them to pay the debt to the Beacon Hills pack.”

“What?”

“When Alex appealed for my help, for my pack’s help, they entered into a deal. Everything has a price,” Stiles reminds him. “So, Alex is going to help me keep an eye out to see if the person who made the spells is working locally and also keep an eye on you to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

Jackson scowls at Stiles’ grin and doesn’t say anything as Stiles starts packing the rest of his stuff scattered around the living room, putting it into his bag.

“Is your bag magic too?”

Stiles laughs. “Dude, it would be awesome to have a Mary Poppins bag,” he agrees, “but no. It’s a regular bag and I’ve gotten really good at packing up and going.”

“When do you rest?”

Stiles gives him a soft smile. “Rarely, but it’s always better to be around pack, not matter how tired I am.”

Jackson drops his eyes and tells himself not to grin like an idiot.

“Alright, I guess I’m ready.”

He looks up and Stiles has added a dark gray hoodie to his black jeans and boots. He looks like he did that first day in the alleyway: calm, cool, intimidating. “Where’s your portal?”

“It’s not a _Portal_ ,” Stiles mutters, “it’s a _Way_.”

Jackson smiles as he bitches under his breath and does something complicated with his hands. After a moment, the air fills with the smell of ozone and Jackson stares when a small flicker of light becomes a circle large enough for Stiles to walk through.

“Tada,” the Spark sing-songs as he grabs his crosse from the couch and slings his bag onto his shoulder.

“Damn. Alright, I’m impressed.”

Stiles smiles and gives the Way an appreciative glance. “It’s nice, right?”

Jackson nods and it hits him again: Stiles is leaving. He’s leaving and Jackson really doesn’t want him to.

Before he can say anything stupid like _Please God don’t go_ , Stiles steps closer and leans his crosse against the island counter. He slides his hand along Jackson’s jaw, drawing close and pressing their mouths together.

If Jackson whimpers – which he _doesn’t_ – Stiles doesn’t say anything about it, just pulls back, takes a breath, and moves in for another kiss.

When he leans back, his eyes are dark, the skin around them pinched. “Bye Jackson.”

He manages to breathe, “Bye Stiles.”

And then, without looking back, Stiles adjusts his bag on his shoulder and steps into the circle of light, disappearing just as quickly as he’d appeared.

Jackson tells himself that it’s the loss of a pack mate that has his wolf letting out a lonely howl, that’s all.

\-----

A couple days later, he gets a text from Stiles. It’s a picture of him and Isaac, sitting at an open-air café and drinking coffee from mugs as big as their faces.

Stiles is wearing the shirt he stole from Jackson and it makes him smile, just a little.

On a whim, because he and Isaac had never been close, he texts: **_Tell him I say Hi_**.

**_BH: Will do. :)_ **

**_BH: He says Hi back_ **

Jackson changes the contact in his phone from BH to Stiles and ignores the weird feeling curling in his stomach.

\-----

A week later, Stiles sends him the instructions on how to make the scentless spell.

**_Stiles: Not that you could make this yourself, mind you._ **

**_Stiles: But a promise is a promise._ **

Jackson wants to shoot back that Stiles didn’t technically promise him anything but he just scrolls through the pictures, sends a thumbs up emoji, and turns back to his Netflix binge.

\-----

Jackson joins Charles, Damian, and their pack on a run for the full moon.

He’s a little wary due to Stiles’ warning, but everything goes well. It’s exhilarating and amazing, to be able to run free instead of having to be leery of other wolves that are running around.

When he wakes up the next day, he thinks about texting Stiles but he hesitates as he reaches for his phone.

In the end, he decides not to and goes to hang out with Seb, leaving his phone at home.

\-----

Two nights later, they’re all out at one of their favorite dive bars. It’s loud and everyone is drunk except for Alex and Jackson. His phone vibrates right as everyone drinks their shots, humming into the conversational lull.

He’s tempted to ignore it, like he’s done with a lot of the other messages, but he catches Alex’s eyes and feels guilty when Alex looks at his phone then raises their eyebrows.

**_Stiles: Hey. What’s up dude?_ **

Jackson sighs, not wanting to do this right now, but knowing that he needs to say something.

**_Nothing._ **

**_Stiles: …are we okay?_ **

**_We’re fine._ **

**_Stiles: Idk… I feel like you’re mad at me._ **

**_I’m not mad at you, idiot._ **

**_Stiles: You sure about that?_ **

**_Why would you think I’m mad at you?_ **

**_Stiles: You barely talk to me anymore. And you didn’t tell me how the full moon went._ **

**_I’ve been busy._ **

**_It was fine._ **

“Jackson, get off your phone and pay attention to meeee,” Seb whines, leaning drunkenly against his shoulder. “When is Stiles coming back? He’s cute and listens to my stories.”

It makes him feel even worse. He catches Alex’s sympathetic look and shakes his head, typing quickly.

**_I’ve got to go._ **

**_Stiles: Okay._ **

Jackson turns off his phone and puts it in his pocket. He feels like a bastard but he just… he can’t. He _can’t_. He tells himself that it’s better this way and ignores the tiny voice in his head telling him that he’s lying.

\-----

It’s been weeks since he’s talked to Stiles and, despite what he tells himself to feel, Jackson’s just so… sad. With a little – or maybe a lot – of his vodka, he’s sad and _drunk_.

He’s sad and drunk and lying on his couch, desperately trying to catch Stiles’ scent on the cushions, but there’s nothing there anymore, even though it took longer to fade here than the pillows on his bed did.

He’s so drunk that texting Stiles seems like a good idea, even though he has to close one eye and stick his tongue out to type it.

**_I’m sorry_ **

And because one message is hardly enough, after ignoring Stiles all this time, he sends more, thankful for autocorrect.

**_I miss you_ **

**_I’m sorry I was a jerk_ **

**_You don’t deserve that_ **

**_I really miss you_ **

He stares at his phone for a while but doesn’t get a reply. Dropping it on his chest, he closes his eyes and passes out.

And when he wakes up the next day, sad and blurry and achy, there’s still nothing, and he’s a little surprised by how much it makes his chest hurt, even though he stopped texting first.

Three days later, he gets a reply from Stiles.

**_Stiles: okay._ **

And Jackson thinks maybe he’s finally done it: he fucked up one of the best things he had going for him.

\-----

Around the beginning of August, Jackson’s doing push-ups in the living room. He’s lost count of how many he’s done at this point. But he just ignores ache in his muscles and keeps going, doing more and more until his arms are trembling.

The only reason he stops is that the hair at the back of his neck prickles, telling him that there’s someone approaching his apartment.

He grabs a towel and swipes at his face, trying to listen for some sign of who it is. It takes him a minute before he recognizes the heartbeat, dropping the towel.

Shamelessly, he bolts for the door, jerking it open and staring at Stiles who’s standing there with a book bag over one shoulder and a rolling suitcase next to him, his defensive crosse sticking out over his shoulder like a sword.

“What are you doing here?” He’s breathless, gasping like a goddamned movie heroine, but he doesn’t care.

It’s been a month since he drunk texted Stiles and this is the last thing he expected.

Stiles grins, taking a step closer. “Study abroad.” He runs his eyes over Jackson’s bare, sweaty torso. “Though, it’s not really a ‘broad’ I’m looking to study, if you catch my drift.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Jackson’s torn between grinning like an idiot and rolling his eyes so hard they fall out of his head. He settles for curling his fingers in Stiles shirt and yanking the brunette forward, dragging him and his suitcase inside before slamming the door and pinning Stiles against it.

“Whoa there, careful with the goods,” Stiles gripes, but he’s smiling widely, eyes crinkled at the corners as he hangs his book bag on the coat hook.

Jackson growls, low in his chest, and enjoys the way Stiles’ eyes darken, the spice of arousal that spikes in the air. He drags his thumb over Stiles’ lower lip slowly before asking, “Better?”

“Better.” Stiles reaches up and drags his hands through Jackson’s sweaty hair, tugging a little and pulling him closer. “Don’t ignore me again,” he orders. “No matter where I live, I travel a lot. Whenever I leave, you’ll need to be able to keep your shit together.”

“I can, as long as I know you’re coming back.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles laughs. “That was _so_ cheesy.” Stiles studies him for a moment then informs him, “You’re lucky I like you too much.”

“I know.” Jackson runs his eyes over Stiles’ face, the way his skin seems to glow even warmer than before, like he spent some time in the sun while he was gone. “You’re really studying abroad?”

“Yep.” Stiles nods. “Know of any place I can stay?”

“Maybe. How long are you here for?”

“The school year. I’ll go back for graduation.”

“And then?”

“I was thinking maybe you’d like to see your old stomping grounds.” Stiles’ fingertips massage small circles into Jackson’s scalp. “Since you’re newly pack and all and haven’t met half the people in it.”

It’s not enough of a distraction, despite how good Stiles’ hands feel, and Jackson narrows his eyes. “Are you trying to get me to go back to Beacon Hills?”

“I’m not trying to get you to do anything. It was just a suggestion.” Stiles shrugs and settles his hands on the sides of Jackson’s neck.

“A suggestion…” Jackson mumbles as Stiles’ thumbs press under his jaw.

“Mmhmm. Like now I’m going to suggest that we make out.”

“And why should we do that?”

“Because,” Stiles grins, tilting his head, “I’ve been thinking about kissing you since I left. Even when you were being a douchebag.”

“You’re so annoying,” he sighs, like he doesn’t enjoy it, and rolls his eyes.

Fondly, Stiles snaps, “Shut up.”

Jackson smirks, pressing his hands to the small of Stiles’ back to draw him closer. “Make me.”

Then Stiles grins and does just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic with Stackson as the focus pairing and I've had a really fun/difficult time writing it. It's been such an interesting challenge! I really hope that you guys enjoyed it too. :)
> 
> Thanks for all the love!
> 
> until next time ~
> 
> kisskiss  
> ♡ Scotch


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